


Hobbies of the Idle Rich

by ScaryScarecrows



Series: Cigarette Smoke & Snark [6]
Category: Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: Child Murder, Gen, Red Hood - Freeform, baby I'm not kidding this isn't pretty, casefic, criminals run from Jason for a reason, do the crime now you're mine, if DC won't let Jason be his scary vigilante self THEN I WILL, let's get this punk, mutilation of a criminal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29266344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: Honestly, he’s expecting a body. Hoping no, but...it’s Gotham. He spends his nights hunting down the worst of the worst, his expectations are low.Not low enough.
Series: Cigarette Smoke & Snark [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1515788
Comments: 20
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of those weirdly coherent story-dreams. It was not...enjoyable...exactly, but it wasn’t a full-on nightmare, either. And then this happened! It won’t be long, five chapters or less, I think. I hope.  
> ANYWAYS, I think this is partially because I’ve been playing Spider-Man: Miles Morales, and I really love it (it’s so good to hear casual Spanish, I’ve missed that in lockdown), but. Um. It’s so bright. People want selfies. There’s been no murders. I’m a stranger in a strange land, man. :p

Jason doesn’t usually take this route. It’s dark and while sure, he’s done objectively dumber things, but wandering down unlit areas as a civilian is too dumb for him. ‘Sides, he’s got the dog to watch for, doesn’t he? He’s gotta be responsible.

But his usual walk route is crawling with construction workers (high speed chase, not his fault), so. Skeezy route it is. And that’s why he knows anything is happening at all.

He’s not on high alert. He’s on medium alert, because he’ll never shake that, but he’s been trying, lately, to have dog walking time be chillout time. It’s a process. But he’s been doing okay, just being, like, in the moment or whatever. But that doesn’t make him blind or suddenly trusting of strange men in his neighborhood, which means he immediately zeros in on the guy slamming the lid of a trash can down and starting to speedwalk away...right towards him and Lemon.

The man sees them, it’s clear, and his body language goes from ‘ew’ to ‘oh SHIT’ in a second. And. Look. Jason...even minding his own business, he knows he scares people. He’s big, he’s clearly seen some shit, and he’s pretty sure he radiates, ‘I can and will fuck you up’ even when he doesn’t mean to. Lemon doesn’t help-people are funny about her-and together, he knows they look like they hide bodies. But this is different. This guy has ‘rich man trying to blend in’ clothes, and...and he’s got a Vibe. There, that’s the problem, he’s got a Vibe. He doesn’t belong here, and in Jason’s experience, rich men don’t come down here unless they want something. Usually something that the Red Hood needs to deal with.

**Act natural.**

He gives the guy a nod, mostly to let him know that yup, he’s been seen, and keeps going. Or tries to, anyway; Lemon, for the first time since he brought her home, goes  **nuts** . Straining at the harness and barking and generally acting like she  **will** tear this man’s throat out if he lets her. That’s weird. Despite her appearance and her history, Lemon’s a big old cinnamon roll. Loves kids and grandmas. Other dogs, not so much, but she’s never acted like this.

Apologies are for people who don’t skulk around in dark alleys, he figures, and so keeps walking. Rounds the corner. Waits for the guy to go-hears a car that proves he doesn’t live here, it doesn’t have the choppy sputtery noise most of the locals’ cars have-and heads back to the trash can.

Honestly, he’s expecting a body. Hoping no, but...it’s Gotham. He spends his nights hunting down the worst of the worst, his expectations are low.

Not low enough. He gets the lid off and sees a vaguely human-shaped trash bag inside. Jesus...okay, who is it…

The bag moves. Jason recoils, ready for an explosion or worse, but nothing else happens. Settling? Maybe it was just settling.

He gets the bag out. It’s small and he goes from world-weary to Pissed as Shit to tiredly determined in about three seconds. Okay. One of those. Not uncommon, unfortunately, but a good way to get your intestines looped over a traffic light-- **the fuck?**

The bag was not settling. It moves again, just a little, but enough to prompt Jason to rip it open and  **oh, God.**

It’s a kid, all right, which puts Jason comfortably back to Pissed as Shit, but...they’re practically a skeleton. Even the Alley Kids aren’t this bad. This? This comes from deliberate starvation in a controlled environment where they won’t freeze to death overnight. On top of that, the kid’s filthy, caked in waste and general grime, and their...their teeth. They don’t...have any, anymore, and it looks like they’ve been pulled out by the roots.

Lemon is now allowed to tear that man’s throat out. Jason is going to paralyze him so it’s safe and let her have at him.

The kid’s not even conscious and Jason doesn’t have to...look. He knows what it looks like, when someone’s about to die. They’ve got minutes at best. He loops Lemon’s leash through his belt loop, though, hoping she won’t see any more assholes, and picks them up. Nobody deserves to die on a cold sidewalk, ‘specially not a little kid.

“S’gonna be okay, kiddo,” he says, knowing they can’t hear him. “S’gonna be okay, I promise.”

When he looks down at the kid again, they’re...it’s over for them. Jason sighs, shoulders slumping, and closes his eyes. What is  **wrong** with people? Is it...why…

**No.** He can’t get lost in the ‘why do people suck?’ forest, that doesn’t help anyone. First things first, call the police, because that’s responsible and also...if anyone’s looking, they deserve to know what happened. Then come back as the Hood and investigate. He’ll get this guy. And when he does, Gotham will have a harsh reminder as to why you don’t. Hurt. Kids. He’s aiming for the front pages. None of this three-pages-in-tiny-blurb bullshit, he’s getting a headline. They’ll be hard-pressed to find the pieces of this bastard.

“Sorry I didn’t let you get him, sour girl,” he tells Lemon, who just whines at him. “I’ll listen next time, okay?”

He’s not foolish enough to hope there won’t be a  _ next time _ . But he does hope, foolish or not, that this doesn’t turn out to be a serial killer. Bad enough if it’s...literally any sort of killer, this is already bad, but he does  **not** want some new freakshow. They have enough of those.

Jesus. What a night. He should have known something bad would happen; it was a slow patrol, just a couple’a muggers and a pimp who needed a refresher course from Miss Manners.

“This won’t happen again,” he tells the sickeningly light body in his arms. “I promise.”

Much as he doesn’t want to, he settles Kiddo back in their bag as gently as possible and digs out his phone to make a report. He waits until he hears sirens before ducking down an alley, hefting Lemon over the flimsy fence at the end of it, and jogging home.

Looks like his night ain’t over yet.

* * *

Cops are fucking stupid. Some of them try, he’ll give ‘em that, but most of the time, they’re just assholes on a power trip. And despite the fact that they work in  _ Gotham _ , home of the living gargoyle, they don’t even think to look up.

Oh, well. That just means he can settle in on a low rooftop and observe without being shot at. He likes not being shot at. So do most people, he imagines, but he knows how bullets feel as they fly past your head, and it’s not pleasant.

Bullock is here, which makes him slightly happier. Bullock’s a grumpy asshole, but he’s a good guy. Mostly. He’ll try, at least, and that’s all Jason can ask.

Unfortunately, he’s got a nice mix of rookies and old timers, which means they know he’s going to know. They’re muttering about it now, taking bets on how long this case will take to become a Hood case. The rookies are jumpy. The old timers are just pissy. But they’re focused on the body, not the roof, so he lets the gum-flapping slide.

“--won’t find out,” somebody’s saying. “He can’t know everything.”

“He knows, kid. Or he will by morning. Trust me, this? Our perp may as well have written the guy a love letter and then mooned him.”

Nngh. He hasn’t considered that. Usually people avoid him. He’s not Batman, he’s not fun to play with unless you like Russian Roulette. This had better not be that, or he’s going to go from Pissed as Shit to Homicidal Rampage with a side of Butcher. He’ll make Zsasz look cute.

“What the hell.”

“People are sick. Okay...get that camera over here, I want pictures of the can, too. We’re sure it wasn’t brought in?”

Yup. The helmet’s picking up old blood stains even from here. It’s been here a while. He’d like to get closer, investigate the bag (Glad or generic? It does indeed tell a lot about where it’s from), but. Cops. 

...eh, he’ll just get into their files later. But for now…

The car. The guy had driven here, and probably hadn’t been here long or he would have lost his tires at the minimum. Nobody is safe down here. Jason would know. The cops are handling this okay-Bullock will keep them from just leaving, if nothing else-so he can go back down...there, right there, he’d heard the car from around there. So...probably parked like, half a block away, so right around...hey, that’s Bunny’s street! Maybe she saw something, if he’s lucky.

Well, she’s out, anyway, leaning against a busted street lamp with a cigarette between her lips. She flinches at first, just a bit, but then he gets closer and her face breaks into a relieved grin.

“Hey, Red.”

“Hey, Bunny. Good night?”

“So-so, y’know. Whatcha want, brat?”

“There’s been a murder,” he says. “Kid. Not one of ours, I don’t think, but...found them in a trash can. Starved, teeth pulled out.”

“Jesus.” She takes a drag off her cigarette. “Poor baby.”

“Puttin’ it lightly, Buns. Look. I might’ve seen the guy who did it, and you might’ve, too. ‘Bout two hours ago, there was a man, didn’t belong here. You know?”

“Yeah.”

“He drove here, I think. I heard a car, sounded like it was over this way. You see anything?”

“Uh-uh. I had a client, just got back about ten minutes ago.” Damn. “Sorry, Red.”

“S’okay. Is anyone else like...around?”

“Nope. Candi’s sick tonight, got food poisoning.”

“Sorry to hear that.” She nods. “If you hear anything, tell me? And heads up, the cops know. If they give you shit, tell me that, too.”

“I can handle a couple of assholes, brat. But thanks.” She stubs her cigarette out and pushes herself off the lamp post. “This ain’t payin’ the bills. Good luck, Red.”

“Stay safe.”

Well. That bit. And it’s  **late** , pushing four, which means it’s time to head in. Come morning, he’ll be doing a little light hacking. He’s done what he can for tonight.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor warning: Jason’s pissed. Somebody suffers.

Jason doesn’t sleep well. He finally wakes up a little after twelve-thirty with the phantom weight of a small, light corpse in his arms and just gives up.

He’s not hungry, not after that, but Lemon fusses and bothers and because he always lets her have a bite of his breakfast, he gives in and makes himself an omelette. It’s probably in his best interests, anyway. Decapitation takes calories.

Okay. First things first, see what the police have. Their database is laughably easy to get into, and since he doesn’t have an all-seeing Batcomputer at his disposal, it’ll have to do. Besides, half the time the cops do notice details...they just don’t know what to make of them.

He settles onto his sofa, one arm thrown over Lemon’s...ample backside...and clicks on his electric blanket. He’s stiff after his rough sleep. Okay, okay...he’s got a backdoor, if he can just...c’mon, c’mon, don’t do the buffer-circle...no dino no dino no dino--yes! He’s in.

Okay. Kiddo is still a John Doe, but there is a file.  _ Trash Angel _ , which, well...whatever. There’s a lotta murders in Gotham, eventually you run out of names. Okay, okay...nothing likely in Missing Persons yet, but there’s a lot of those, too, and that sometimes takes time even without checking outside the Gotham area...cause of death, illness likely unable to be fought off thanks to severe malnutrition...coroner notes evidence of blunt-force trauma...teeth forcibly removed maybe a month prior to death...Jesus.

He has to take a minute to just. Just breathe. He’ll never understand, he just...adult-to-adult depravity, he gets. Even the sick, twisted kind, like Penguin driving that chef to suicide. But kids? He’ll never understand what kind of freak gets off on doing this to a  **child** . And the day he does is the day he turns his gun on himself. He does  **not** want to understand that mindset. There’s picking on the weak and there’s  **this** .

But he does need a minute before he can go on.

**In, out...in, out...in, out…**

Okay. He’s okay. He’s okay.

Okay. Kiddo was in the ten-twelve range, no signs of a rough start; whatever happened, it was only in the last month or two. Jason’s leaning kidnapper, but he’s not totally ruling out a relative. Lotta times moms, it seems like, will, er, get rid of their kids if the new boyfriend doesn’t like ‘em. Kiddo could also be a foster child. There’s a reason he ducked the system, after all. He makes a little note to check that, see if there’s...jeeze, anything, any sort of reports...and keeps scrolling.

Nobody mentions the brand of the trash bag, which is a bummer, but surprisingly enough, they did find someone to talk to; an old man who lives in the apartment across the street, who had seen a guy put the bag in the bin. Good. Jason makes a note of his name-James ‘Beauty’ Smith, ugly bastard-and takes a deep breath. This is good. They’re looking. Not that it really matters, he guesses, because  **he’s** looking, but...Bullock or not, the cops don’t always try too hard for kids. Certainly not the Alley Kids, which Kiddo might be.

At least they’re trying.

He tips over and buries his face in Lemon’s shoulder. Wishes, only a for a minute, that the regular route hadn’t been torn up. He wouldn’t have known about this otherwise. Or at least...at least he wouldn’t be so close to it.

Then again, if it’s a serial killer, he’s gotta stop him. Well, he’s gotta get this guy anyway, but he really has to stop him before he becomes a full-blown public menace. It’s just…

It’s dumb. But these are the ones that always come howling out of the darkness when he’s least expecting it, the ones that have him jerking back to reality mid-paragraph. They’re not easy to take, and he...sometimes he resents having to.

But not enough to walk away, so here he is.

He takes a deep breath, gives himself a mental shake, and sits back up. Okay.

Honestly, there’s not much. Won’t be, probably, until he gets a name or at least a probable location. And as guilty as he feels, he’s glad to be able to slip out of the database.

Now. He should-and will-start a check through the foster care system, but, well...that’s a joke. Plenty of kids that are in there either aren’t listed or have been dead for two years. Sometimes both. Depressing-ness aside, he also has to weed through the Alley Kids, many of whom are listed and who had the good sense to run. Like. Homelessness is bad. He’s  **well** aware. But they’ve all heard the scary stories, and frankly, there’s worse.

So he’ll do that in a few minutes. Just. Not right this minute.

He sighs, shuffles to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of limeade, slams it, and leans against the counter. Poor kid. Poor  _ kid _ , what the  **fuck--**

The glass shatters in his hand, shards cutting deep, and he’s left watching the blood drip onto the tiles. He should care.

He really doesn’t.

But Lemon’ll step on the glass if he doesn’t clean it up, so. Time to find the broom

* * *

The foster check doesn’t work out, because there’s too damn many that fit what little profile he has. He’ll try again another time. But right now, it’s nighttime and that means that Hood can head out and talk to Smith.

Smith’s a pimp, one that’s been on Jason’s radar before. He’s better behaved, now-funny what a lost finger and a shattered collarbone will do for a man-but Jason still checks on him now and again. Just a little wave here, a nod there. A reminder that he’s always watching.

The man’s in the shower when he arrives. Jason makes himself comfy on the couch, judges the man’s game collection, and thinks he ought to replay  _ Until Dawn _ soon. Maybe go for a no-death run, that’d be a first for him. But ugh, everyone’s such an asshole...choices, choices.

The shower shuts off. A few minutes later, Smith strolls out-oh, thank God, he put on pants-and is halfway to the kitchen when he sees Jason.

He pales.

Tries to run.

Goes down thanks to a thrown chair to the back.

“No-!”

“You been a good boy?” He almost wishes the answer’s no. He knows it isn’t, but...he’d kill for a face to break. “Been treating the girls nice?”

“Yes! Yes, I swear--”

“I know. I just wanted to spook ya a little.” He saunters over, rolls Smith over. “I’m here because you saw something last night.”

“I didn’t kill that kid!”

“I know.” Smith has his nickname thanks to a brutal beating that’s left his face malformed. Not just scarred,  **warped** , with a squinty eye and a smashed-in, crooked nose, and his jaw doesn’t sit quite right. And of course there’s the temper he  **used** to be known for, before he became a changed man. A changed, frightened man. “But you saw something. I want the bastard that did it, and I don’t care what I have to do to get him.” He  _ snicks _ his knife out, presses it to the skin under Smith’s left eye. “You’re going to tell me everything, even the shit the cops don’t know, or I carve you up like a Jack-o-Lantern, cut your balls off and feed ‘em to you, and then, maybe, if you’re still alive, we go for a stroll over to Perdition Bridge. Sound fun?”

Smith’s crying. Alas, Jason’s field of fucks was not watered recently, and he has none to give.

“I  **_said_ ** , sound fun?”

“I’ll talk! I’ll talk!”

“Good.” The knife retracts. “Start singin’, nightingale.”

“I saw ‘im put. Put a bag in the bin, man. Okay? Slammed it in there pretty good, hit it a few times. Like. Like ya do! When the bag don’t go in right! I thought it was just too much! So he puts it in, and goes, runs into this guy with a dog and kinda...kinda runs, after, but the dog was mean so I can’t blame him--”  **Fuck you.** “--I don’t know, man, he just--he’s been--” He gulps. “I know him. I know him.”

**_“How.”_ **

“He’s. He’s come down here, sometimes. Think he’s a doctor or somethin’, I don’t know, he’s treated my girls.”

“Treated how.”

“Normal shit! You know...like…” Oh, for fuck’s sake. He used to be fine with abuse and assault, and he’s too scared to use his words here? “Just normal shit, that’s all! Thought he was hidin’ stuff from his wife! Y’know, sometimes...sometimes I’d pay ‘im under the table?”

“What do you mean.” Calm. Calm. “I’m not mad, I’m just asking.” Maybe.

“The girls, sometimes, they...they don’t mind! I give ‘em a little extra, okay?” He’ll be investigating that very shortly. “Last time it was. Fuck, I don’t...Lulubelle! It was Lulubelle!”

He’ll be checking.

“What’s his name.”

“Thornton. Doc Thornton.”

…

Jason hears the proverbial record scratch. He knows that name, some upper-crust guy. Not  _ quite _ Bruce’s circles, but up there. Definitely gala-worthy.

“You’re  **sure** .”

“Yes! I swear! I swear!”

Jason’s silent, letting him sweat it a little.

“Now. You didn’t tell the police that info?”

“No…”

“Why not.”

Smith’s eyes go from left to right. He doesn’t have an answer, or if he does, Jason won’t like it...and he knows that.

“I  **_asked_ ** you a  **_question_ ** .”

“I didn’t.” A fat, pink little tongue pops out and moistens his lips. “I didn’t.”

“I’m listening.”

“Ididn’tthinkitwasmybusiness,” he says, real quick like that’ll help him. The red-hot rage that’s been burning in Jason’s chest recedes, gives way to cold fury.

“Child murder is everyone’s business,” he says, voice flat and matter-of-fact. He tilts his head. “I think you’re gonna need a reminder for future reference.”

“Please-please-no--”

Last time, Jason took his left ring finger, where he used to wear a heavy ring that he liked to slap the girls with. This time, he takes his left eye. See no evil and all that.

“Thanks for the help,” he tosses over his shoulder at the moaning man on the carpet. “Might wanna get that checked out; looks like it might scar.”


	3. Chapter Three

Contrary to popular belief, Jason doesn’t actually come crashing through skylights on one creep’s say-so. That shit starts gang wars.

First, Lulabelle. He’s already out and she’s working tonight, so he doesn’t have to pester her on her night off. He hates having to do that. Nights off are important for one’s physical and mental well-being and should not be interrupted.

Lulabelle works a block over. She’s discrete, and therefore popular among two crowds: the cheaters and the deeply closeted lesbians. Not that there’s that many of the latter that come down here, not in the day of the internet, but they’re not unheard of.

Tonight is dead. Jason’s glad; he wasn’t relishing hanging out and waiting for her, or being interrupted by a client, or anything like that. He wants to get his intel and get moving, get home to triple-check this before he breaks into Thornton’s house.

“Hey, Lu,” he says, sticking to just out of the light’s reach. He’s got blood on him from Smith, and, uh. He knows that’s a little creepy. Can’t be helped, but still. “Have a sec?”

“I have lots of secs,” she says, cackles when he sputters. “You’re too easy, Red. Whatcha want?”

“Thornton.”

“What about him? You hurt?” The flirtatious set to her hips vanishes and she moves closer. “What happened?”

“I’m fine, I don’t...you hear about that kid? In the trash can?”

“Everybody knows. Why?” She frowns. “You don’t think the doc had somethin’ to do with it, do you?”

“I do.”

“Ugh.” She scrapes her tongue over her teeth. “I’m going to drink so much mouthwash tonight...what’s going on.”

“Smith said you paid him for his services.”

“I did--oh, it’s not like that. I volunteered. He’s gentle. Little lonely; his wife’s not the most...wife-y, you know? It’s not like I  _ like _ him or anything, but he’s no trouble. Honestly, I feel a little sorry for him. He’s a little...y’know...” She worries at her lower lip. “You really think he did this?”

“I can’t rule him out. Smith says he was there, it’s the best lead I’ve got.”

“Damn. Guess you can never tell...anyways, he’s been comin’ down now and again for, like, six months or so. Just for routine check-ups, that’s all, nothing big.”

“And he’s always seemed normal?”

“Yeah. Nice to us, not...judge-y and weird, you know how some of ‘em are. Happy to see us, then they turn around and call us bitches.” She rolls her eyes. “Ungrateful bastards. Not with this guy, though.”

Great.

“Hopefully it wasn’t what it looked like,” he says. “Have a safe night.”

“You too, Red.”

* * *

Well. Gregory Thornton-no relation to the crime boss Thornton-has been practicing family medicine for nearly twenty years. He and his wife are on their second marriages-he’s divorced and her first husband died of cancer five years back-no kids between them, but she’s got two. Mary and Danny, seven and twelve, respectively. They’re at boarding school, which...seven? At a boarding school? Sometimes he wonders why these people have children. Like, whatever, he guesses, they’re clean and fed and all, but. Why bother?

There’s nothing on this guy that’s setting off alarm bells. Not a damn thing. This guy’s like a Brucie Wayne; volunteers, every public photo has his wife and stepkids in it, there is nothing.

But.

Thing is.

Roman Sionis, way back when, before he was the Black Mask, was a Good Person. Successful, gorgeous girlfriend, attended the right events, the works. And then shit hit the fan and the next thing you know, he’s mutilated the girlfriend and become a crime lord. Jason blames the rabid racoon, personally.*

He’s going to have to do a little light breaking and entering. He’s not pestering the kids, not at all, but the wife is fair game. It’s a rare day that these guys hide it all from their partner. Maybe she’s in on it, maybe he’s an abusive asshole, but he’ll bet that she  **knows** .

If she doesn’t, well, surprise. Sorry.

Unfortunately, the investigating will be a daytime activity, because most people are home at night and that’s just asking for trouble. He can slip inside tomorrow, maybe claim to be, like, a plumber or something. Or just jimmy the attic window open. He’ll see when he gets there.

Lemon stretches, wobbling on her back end like one of those never-fall dolls, and tips her head back to look at his tostadas. When he doesn’t give her any, she cries at him.

“No.” She twists to plop her gross, drooly head in his lap**. “These are mine. Get your own.”

Honestly, he’s thinking the window plan might be easier, if only because he can hide. The plumber disguise makes that harder. It would let him talk to anyone working there, but he can’t easily rifle through dresser drawers. He could take a backpack, keep the helmet in there and also cover the bird on his back, and gear up once inside. Keep his jacket zipped up, maybe keep the guns and bullets to a minimum. Like, just one, make up for it with an extra couple’a knives. That sorta thing.

_ Wuf. _

“Don’t yell at me, I’m not sharing. I got popped five times frying these fucking things, remember? Because I remember. It hurt. Look what happened to me.” He sticks his burned hand near her face and promptly snatches it back when she tries to eat it. “There is no food for you.” She whines, does that thing with her eyebrows that he really can’t refuse. “I’ll save you the last bite, but you can’t mug me for it. You have to take it nice.”

…

Yeah, yeah, he knows it’s bad. It’s just. She was so scrawny, at first. And so pitiful. He knows what it’s like to be hungry and he’s a sucker, okay? Shut up. Besides, she knows how to eat off a fork and it’s funny.

Yeah, he’s gonna break in. It’s better that way. Easier. He’ll look at the floor plan first, he guesses. Spend one day scoping the place out-last thing he wants is to be taken out by a guard dog-and then breach the building when the guy goes to work. He’s not above, like, quietly gagging the housekeeper and tucking her in a closet.

Sometimes, you have to be a bit of an asshole to get the job done.

* * *

Because Jason is, in fact, a responsible adult (he wears a  _ helmet _ , suck on  _ that _ , Dickolas), he goes to bed at a decent hour. He’s gotta be up early tomorrow, after all.

Admittedly, it’s a little weird to be settled in his bed at an hour he’s usually starting to wrap up his patrol, but hey. Whatever. His bed’s warm, and his pajamas are comfy, and he’s not aching too much. Y’know. All things considered.

So of course it takes him forty minutes to get to sleep, and he finds himself in the grip of a vicious nightmare.

Well. For other people it would be a nightmare. For Jason it starts out as some variant of  _ The Fall of the House of Usher _ and turns into a memory, of splinters in his hands and worms wriggling in his throat.

He wakes up tasting dirt. It’s been two hours, not time to get up, but...but he can’t go back to sleep. Not after that.

He sits up, strips his sweat-soaked shirt off and chucks it across the room. God, he can’t breathe, he can’t  _ breathe _ .

_ “Christ,” _ he breathes, one hand coming up to rub the bullet scar on his chest, the one Joker gave him. He thought...s’been six months, he thought he was over that whole thing. Good God, it’s not...he’s had worse, right, walk that shit off. He wasn’t that badly hurt.

His throat feels swollen and he gags, doubles over and wills himself not to vomit. He’s okay, he’s okay…

He’s not okay. Four running steps later, he’s heaving his tostadas into the toilet. Damn it,  _ damn it! _

Lemon shoves at his back, nose freezing against his spine, and he slumps further over, forehead burning against the cold porcelain. Jesus. Jesus, okay.

He flushes and struggles up, rinses out the taste of dirt and puke, and looks up at his reflection. Wow, he looks lousy; pale and with shadows under his eyes blacker than Bruce’s cape.

“M’okay, sour girl,” he mumbles. “M’okay. Jus’. Jus’ a nightmare, baby, m’sorry.”

He’s not going back to bed, not after that. Better to get a glass of ice water and shrug a hoodie on to go out on the balcony and smoke.

There’s something different about Gotham at this hour. She’s quiet, resting for the moment and bathed in smoggy blue. Even Crime Alley’s almost pretty at this time of day, and it’s certainly grounding to lean on the railing and watch trash blow down the street. Sounds depressing, he knows, but it’s familiar, watching cans rattle down the asphalt.

At the same time, that kid...they didn’t deserve to have this place be the last thing they saw. Jason? Jason knows he’ll die down here. He’s always known that. But...he’s sure whoever that one was wasn’t  _ from _ here, and…

You’re either born here or you end up here, and Jason wouldn’t wish the latter on a child. They had their whole life ahead of them, and they ended up in some grimy trash can, dying in the arms of a total stranger.

(He doesn’t want that. Dying alone sounds sucky, but if he’s going to be selfish, he doesn’t want a stranger, either.)

(...)

(But when has he ever gotten what he wanted?)

His cigarette’s gone and the sky’s starting to lighten, just a little. He...he’s gonna try again, to catch a couple of hours’ sleep. He has to. He knows that.

One clean pair of pajama pants later, he’s crawling back under his covers. And he tries, honest, but he doesn’t get back to sleep.

  
  
  
  


*I wish I was kidding, but no. No. Roman’s backstory includes him being bitten by a rabid racoon that he tried to pet. I feel that this should be made fun of more.

**Edgar is a master beggar. I’ve never seen anything like it.  _ He sucks his gut in _ . It’s incredible.


	4. Chapter Four

The Thornton house is exactly what Jason expected; three stories, protected by security cameras, and decidedly Uptown. It’s cleaner than any of the buildings in Jason’s neighborhood, all shiny white like it’s sitting in the sun...even though there really isn’t sun, because this is Gotham and that’s a sign of the apocalypse.

When Jason was a kid-a real kid, when Mom was still alive-he thought he’d like to live in a place like this. He’d had some wild idea of, like, winning the lottery or something-he’d never really had the specifics-and buying one of these houses. Then he’d ended up with Bruce and gotten so fucking lost trying to get water one night, wound up in some creepy room filled with suits of armor. Bruce had found him hiding behind a chair because he couldn’t find his way out and he’d been convinced that one of them had moved.

…

Shut up, he’d been like, twelve. And it had been dark.  **And** he’d been a Traumatized Child, cut him some slack.

But anyways, he doesn’t want to live in a house like this now. Don’t get him wrong, he wouldn’t mind, if the day comes that he has to put away the hood, moving into a nicer apartment. Not anything freakishly fancy, just maybe something a little bit nicer than the place he’s in now, where he doesn’t have to fuck with the water pipes once a month. Dove’s got the right idea on that one.

He’s done a basic walkaround of the place-no dog, not that he can tell-and come up with nothing overly suspicious. Well, that’s sort of a lie. If he weren’t already on High Alert, he might not care, but the blinds are all drawn. And sure, maybe that’s a nothing. But...maybe it’s not. You just never know.

So sue him, he’s paranoid. It’s not like he’s  _ looking _ for this guy to be the culprit. If there is literally nothing in his house, he’ll leave him alone. Honest. S’just...that’s weird. It’s a nice day, by Gotham standards. Why not open one single curtain?

That’s the only thing, though. Everything else is fine; mailbox up to code, garden perfectly trimmed. These HOAs give him the creeps. How do you not get lost on your way home?*

The security’ll be easy to hack. He’s handled harder ones. Oof, that one mobster last year?  **That** had been hell. He’d had a few moments that he’d considered tracking down Jimmy Rogers. That would have been, he’d thought at the time, easier than the damn coding nightmare. But he’d gotten in in the end, and, well, it probably wouldn’t have been easier. But it had been considered.

But not this time! He won’t really know until he’s got the helmet on, but he’s thinking, based on the exterior and what he knows about the  creature man inside, that it won’t be more than the standard. Cameras, maybe a motion detector, probably an auto-call to the police in the event of a break-in. Nothing overly shiny, and certainly nothing he can’t shut down on his own.

Someone’s coming and he twists away, pulling out his phone and taking the world’s most casual sip of his hot chocolate. Once upon a time, he wouldn’t bother, but, well...he’s more recognizable than he used to be. People are unobservant and dense, but most of them will remember the kind of scarring he’s got. Little hard to miss.

They don’t tell him to move along or anything, probably don’t even really register him, but he waits for them to round the corner before turning back to Thornton’s house. Yeah, he can get in there easy. If he finds nothing, he’ll melt away like the ghost he should be. But if he finds something…

Well. He has his reputation for a reason.

* * *

Jason goes home around four to get some rest and dinner and also to do some light poking around the other members of the family. The kiddos are accounted for by the school’s system (so he shouldn’t be in there, what they don’t know won’t hurt them). Cute little things. He kinda hopes this  **isn’t** his guy, just ‘cause it’ll be messy for them. Nobody wants to explain that your mom married the damn Stepfather’s brother**.

Mrs. Thornton-Clara, her name is-doesn’t get out too much. Apparently she’s pregnant, and on top of that, she broke her arm a few weeks ago. Took a spill. Jason will be checking on that, because he’s paranoid as it is, but her story seems solid and to be fair, there’s no other weird injuries or anything. People do legitimately have accidents, he knows that, it’s just...in this line of work, he doesn’t see accidents. He sees dickery.

He heads inside tomorrow at ten. That’s when the doctor leaves. Clara may or may not, but he can avoid her well enough. It’s not hard. They don’t have permanent staff, and while ordinarily Jason would scope them out for a week and get, like, the maid’s schedule, he doesn’t have that luxury this time. On the chance that this guy has some sort of torture basement or something, he can’t, in good conscience, play it safe. If he has to lock somebody in the pantry, well, so sorry.

“I’m gonna get this fucker, Lemon,” he says to the gray lump on the couch. “I’m gonna get him, I’m gonna open him up, and I’m gonna make damn sure he doesn’t do this again.”

She snorts at him. Such confidence, there.

“We’re probably gonna have to clear out for a week or so,” he continues, reaching over to rub her shoulder. “B’s gonna be pissed. Like, fuck him, but he’s gonna be pissed.”

That is definitely a Bruce Problem and not a Jason Problem, but still. He’s gonna get a go-bag ready before he leaves, take the dog and nope on off to a safehouse just inside of the Narrows. Not a good place to be, but he can lie low there until Bruce quits his bullshit about ‘not our place to be judge, jury and executioner’ and ‘who gave you the right’ and ‘let the justice system do its job’, which, ha. If Jason had a dollar for every time the justice system failed, he’d be richer than Bruce.

Whatever. He’ll worry about Batman McJustice later. Tonight, he’s going to finalize everything, get packed, that sort of thing. And tomorrow, he’s going to get to work.

*My grandparents live in a place like this (only not, like, step-away-from-Bruce-Wayne). When I’ve dogsat, I HAVE to just go ‘round the block twice when walking, or I will get lost. I hate it.

** _ The Stepfather _ : scary movie based on a true story. Brr.


End file.
